


A Peculiar Aspect  of a Person’s Character or Behaviour

by halloa_what_is_this



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, John is John and deserves to be loved, M/M, Pretend fighting, Quirks, Sherlock is a cat and needs to be petted, and teased a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:17:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloa_what_is_this/pseuds/halloa_what_is_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thus says the Oxford English Dictionary as an explanation for the word 'quirk', probably the best word in English language.</p><p>Now edited into an easy-to-read chapterless story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Peculiar Aspect  of a Person’s Character or Behaviour

1.

Sherlock licks the tops of pots of yoghurt. And not with long sweeps either, but with short tiny sips like a cat. Afterwards he stretches his mouth open and licks his lips several times. Again like a full-grown feline.

At first John watches him with amazement. He wonders if Sherlock is even aware of what he does or if he does it purely on purpose.

The next time around he looks at him like you look at a child, with affection and a soft sigh. Then comes amusement, with a drop of banana yoghurt on Sherlock’s nose, and John plans all morning to let it stay there but pity takes a hold when they are leaving to meet Lestrade on a crime scene.

Hunger is the fourth feeling to take over when John comes home from a long day at work and even longer night chasing Sherlock around London, and he sees Sherlock at the table licking the lid of the half-litre pot of extra vanilla John reserved as breakfast for himself but didn’t have time to eat. This time there’s also anger, the yoghurt is yanked away from Sherlock’s fingers and half of it accidentally poured on the rug when Sherlock reacts like he has expected the whole time for John to want his treat back, half too slow, half just in time, his hand slips and they stare at the mess on the floor before John stomps out and to the nearest shop.

The newest emotion is something he can’t quite decipher: it’s a mixture of hunger and perhaps a hint of the friendly tenderness but now there’s nothing funny about the way Sherlock swipes his tongue over his lips, nor is John amazed by anything else than the insistent flutter in his belly.

That's when Sherlock decides it's a good idea to take a long sweep over the lid, find something interesting from the newspaper and forget to drag his tongue all the way in.

When he realizes the tip of his tongue is feeling cold and wet, he snaps it in like an iguana and continues the interrupted, more sensual sweeps over the lid.

The feeling this time is definitely nothing but uncomfortable, so John jumps up to make himself more tea.

When he returns to the table, Sherlock has somehow managed to upset the yoghurt so that it’s now dripping down his wrist. Eyes glued to the newspaper, Sherlock moves the licks from plastic to skin.

 

2.

Plain rice is something Sherlock agrees to eat sometimes when he is on a case. After the case is finished he gorges himself and adds chicken, vegetables and a lot of spices on the rice, but during the cases it’s plain rice or nothing. John indulges him and gives him a bowl of basmati with only a hint of salt and chopsticks. Sherlock eats his food obediently, but mostly he plays with the tiny grains with the chopsticks, lost in thought.

The case finished, he goes directly to the fridge and if there is any rice left over he will eat it from the pot. Cold. With his fingers. As was the case with the yoghurt, John goes through stages of emotions and settles with endearment this time. He is only glad to see Sherlock eat.

 

3.

Sherlock whistles. The queerest tunes imaginable, and only when he does the dishes. Sherlock doing housework is a miracle of its own, but the constant whistling that happens clearly without him acknowledging it stops John in his tracks every time he hears the kitchen tab being opened, the water flow and the crockery clink.

He grows quiet instantly, never sure what Sherlock will whistle this time. Sherlock is a man of classical music, knows a few Christmas carols (most likely only to please Mrs Hudson during the holidays) and now the tune to that one soap opera he’s been watching on the telly, the one that goes din-din-din-di-din-din-di-din-din (John has heard him play it with the violin once, slower, calmer, and it actually sounded beautiful).

It starts low, the first notes draw along for a while, are repeated twice, no, three times.

He knows this, from somewhere.

 _Oh, yes_.

Three months ago, Sunday, nothing to do, no case, and Sherlock was slightly ill. So John took advantage of the quiet in the flat and popped in the film he had wanted to see for a while, ever since his colleagues had found out that he had never seen it and almost laughed him out of the lunch room.

The film was okay, but the tune especially stuck in his head and apparently the same happened to Sherlock for there he was, whistling perfectly in sync with the film’s soundtrack. John is amazed at what the man can remember, chooses to remember. Sherlock had lain on the sofa the whole time John was engaged in the film, snorted every time he was looked at and especially loud every time the boy with the scar or any of his friends waved their wands around and muttered something slightly resembling Latin. The film had ended with sounds very much like snores from Sherlock’s corner but his eyes had been open the whole time.

 

4.

They have a very decent leather sofa in the sitting room that could easily fit two people and a bowl of popcorn in the middle or three people and perhaps someone could hold the bowl. But the furniture is more often than not occupied by Sherlock who takes the space of three people and more with his ridiculously long legs that are without exception hanging over one of the hand rests. (Unless he is sulking which is the time John knows it is least safe to be anywhere near those feet. Even with Sherlock crouched in one corner in foetal position to leave a spot for someone John's size, he would only be greeted by a kick in the thigh if he was to sit down.)

John usually finds it easier to just sit in the armchair that has become his and not to complain but when so happens that for once he is at home without Sherlock and thus the sofa unoccupied, he throws himself on the thing and sighs contently.

The bliss only last for a few seconds before he hears the front door bounce open, recoiling from the wall opposite and going by the clucking erupting from Mrs Hudson is deliberately left open. Footsteps pound up the stairs, Sherlock emerges and throws his coat on the peg behind the door, actually aims and throws, and turns to look at his favourite spot.

And stops short.

John cracks open an eye he has closed during the few seconds of quiet and squeezed tighter shut when he heard Sherlock sprinting his way into the flat. Sherlock is standing in front of the sofa, staring down at John like he is the lost dodo, looking like he has only understood the importance of this discovery the minute he has found the extinct species in his sitting room.

“You are in my spot.”

Eyes still almost shut, John barely shuffles like he is actually deep asleep.

“That is not fooling anyone. You’re in my spot. Get up.”

“I don’t see your name written on it.”

“I sit there the most. Ergo, it’s my spot.”

“You only sit here, no, you _sprawl_ here most because you take all the bloody space and no one else can actually fit here. Now go away, I’m sleepy.”

“Get up from my spot first.”

Eyes finally open.

“Really, Sherlock? I’m actually having this conversation with you? You’re actually such a child that you have to have a fight over a _sofa_.”

“I am not being a child. I sometimes experience pain in my feet because of the veins. I need to lift them up when this happens. But before I can do that, you have to get your butt up, up and away from my spot.”

Eyes close.

“No.”

“Fine.”

Long legs crawling over John startle him fully awake and when Sherlock pushes his feet behind his back, he is ready to start counterattack.

“If you have such trouble with your veins,” push and shove against Sherlock’s thighs, “go and sit in the chair and use the coffee table.”

“No,” feet dig under John’s shirt, cold toes curling up his back, “this is my spot and you stole it, you spot stealer.”

“You will have no feeling in your precious feet soon if you keep showing them under me.”

“Then _move_!”

“ _No_!”

Shuffling, toes almost in a nose, another pair in armpits that make the owner squeal (Sherlock catalogues the high-pitched sound away, deciding to rely on John being ticklish in that spot later), a bite mark in a heel and several blasphemies later, the two are so tangled on the sofa they are not sure which body parts are whose.

“I think that’s your knee that’s digging me in the arse,” John pants.

“No, that is definitely yours,” answers Sherlock. “My knees have been lost somewhere under the sofa cushions. I think they’re having a fight with the dust balls there. I really have to have a talk with Mrs Hudson about the hoovering.”

John swallows, almost ready to give up and go get a glass of water.

“What is it with you and this sofa anyway?”

“I told you,” Sherlock croaks, “I need to lift my feet up ---“

“Because you have sensitive veins, yes yes. You know, I could actually prescribe something for that. Perhaps then I could get the sofa to myself every once in a while.”

“No, you really wouldn’t.”

 

5.

Continuing lack of cases would most likely drive John to tear his (and Sherlock’s) hair out in clumps. But today John has had a good night’s sleep and a good day at work, and he is ready to face altogether hale and hearty Sherlock with whatever he may have to offer. Sherlock, too, has had a good day at the Yard pestering Lestrade and even getting a few teeth grinds from Anderson. He returns to Baker Street in good humour and is greeted by a flying crosswords puzzle. So he has something to do for the remainder of the evening, says John who hopes that finishing the puzzle and mocking him for the mistakes he has made will keep Sherlock quiet and himself from shucking anything harder than a paper at him.

It starts after about five minutes of peace and quiet.

John first notices the rhythmic movements from the corner of his eye. He lifts his gaze and sees Sherlock’s feet shuffling against each other. He has stretched his legs in front of him, crossed his ankles and is waving away happily. Apparently he can’t keep himself still even sitting down.

Or he’s feeling chilly.

“Perhaps you should go put socks on,” John suggests to his book.

Sherlock lifts his gaze from the paper.

“It’s highly unlikely Thomas Hardy would take you up on the offer, considering he has been cremated in the 20s and so probably doesn’t get cold. I, however, could actually use a pair.”

“I’d rather get Master Hardy his socks since I’d most likely get an actual thank you from him,” John turns a page of _The Mayor of Casterbridge_.

Sherlock stretches his leg to poke his toes against John’s book.

“If the rumours are anything to go by and a tom actually stole his heart before it got to Stinsford, you’d probably get as _heartfelt_ a thanks from him as you would from me.”

“No matter what several others might think, your heart is still very much intact, inside your chest and beating. You just think it unnecessary to put into words anything you know to be self-evident.”

Sherlock sneezes on him.

“You’ve even started to sneeze like a cat.”

“What?”

 

6.

Pull.

“There’s something there.”

Pull.

“I’m missing it, what is it?”

Pull.

“John, concentrate!”

Pull.

“For god’s sake, Sherlock! Stop pulling your earlobe! You’ll get granny ears.”

_Pull._

 

7.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Watching you cook.”

“You need not sit so close to do it.”

“I don’t want to miss anything.”

“I’m only chopping tomatoes. Nothing new or fancy about that,” says John, his lips pursing out in concentration when he accidentally squishes one quarter of the veg into a mush.

_Ha! There it is._

Sherlock smirks.

“What are you looking so smug about?” asks John, tongue appearing briefly between his lips.

 _And there. Three times_.

 _Oh, doesn’t he just_ love _it when John does that!_

The grin widens.

“Am I making you uncomfortable? Are your mediocre cooking skills growing weaker as we speak?”

John taps him on the head with the wooden spoon lying in a pot waiting for a sauce to be stirred.

“Get thee hence from my kitchen, knave, or there shan’t be dinner for you to-night.”

Sherlock catches the fourth tongue slip with his teeth.

 

8.

Pulling sheets is important in a study of the person you are living with. It tells your compatibility with the said person, shows straight out whether you fit together or not. If you fold the sheets automatically the same way working with the other person like a clockwork, your cohabitation will be long and happy.

“Other way, John!”

“Who cares!”

“I do! And what you said was a question, not an exclamation. Do get your intonations right.”

“Sherlock, I will murder you with this sheet if you bring in grammar to this already annoying fancy of yours of folding the sheets wrong. It’s whip, whip, fold. Whip, whip, fold. Pull, fold.”

“There is no whipping! This is not a kink. But you are right about one thing regardless of your stupidity. Pull!”

The command comes so suddenly John has no time to react. He staggers forward, trips on the sheet and lands on Sherlock and the pile of bedclothes waiting for their turn of whipping-pulling-folding on the floor.

John has mouth full of curly hair. Nothing compared to ear full of tongue tracing the whorls and whispering obscenities involving the bed clothes in somewhere far more comfortable than hardwood floor as well as a whipping sound emitted by something more leathery than the cottony white sheets.

Sherlock gets to thrash and squeal unrecognizable threats to a pillow for good long minutes before John relents and stops trying to suffocate him with the bedding.

 

9.

John stares over his newspaper at the eyes over the mouth that has just stopped in front of him to make the most ludicrous of suggestions.

“You want me to _what_?”

Sherlock takes off his dressing gown, throwing it on the chair opposite John’s.

“Scratch my back,” he repeats sitting down by John’s chair. His attempt to lean against John’s legs is stopped by a foot that presses hard against his shoulder blades.

“Okay, _why_?” John asks Sherlock’s neck.

“I believe that’s what friends do, show affection to each other through physical contact.” Sherlock rolls his shoulder blades and rubs against the foot. “Keep going,” he encourages.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet!”

“You said okay. As far as I know that is a more colloquial way of saying yes.”

The squirming against John's heel continues. The man himself tries to straighten his posture in the chair to form a coherent thought and his foot skids a bit along Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock purrs.

_Bloody feline in a man suit._

The noise Sherlock makes is lovely, though. John tries moving his foot again.

The purring continues.

John strains his foot a bit, just so that his nails can scratch the more itchy parts of Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock himself arches his back and sighs.

John picks up his newspaper and returns to the sports section. His toes keep wondering up and down Sherlock’s back, finding where the man tickles and where he is tense.

And Sherlock purrs.

**Author's Note:**

> These are actually all something I’ve noticed I do (except of course John's quirk with the tongue-sticking and lip-licking which are all Martin Freeman). So if you ever see anyone eating cold rice with their fingers, sitting only with feet lifted up and all the while pulling their left earlobe, you know it’s me.


End file.
